✦summary: you and dean hate each other. there isn't a moment you aren't fighting, just like there isn't a moment you don't wish he'd love you back, and there isn't a single second he doesn't want you more than you can imagine. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), jealous!dean, angst, overprotective dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, feral smut (manhandling, praise kink and degradation kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, stripping, thigh riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, light nipple play, begging, fingering, face sitting, jerking off, pussy slapping, rough sex, some edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11.5k✦
✦author's note: monthly voted fic! he's yearning so hard guys✦
The bar is loud, but you expected that. It’s what you needed. Between that and the drink in you hands, it’s going to quiet your thoughts. They get lost in chatter of the crowd, and the bass drum of the music. It pounds in your chest and dislodges your heart. You let it. You don’t want to feel it right now.
You check your phone, even though you’ve told yourself not to. The case is sticky from the bar counter, and you wrinkle your nose at the screen before you even read the messages.
Five missed calls from – Dean Winchester.
A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.
He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.
The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.
And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.
Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.
When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.
To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.
Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.
Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.
Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.
When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.
“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.
“No. No one likes trouble.”
Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”
You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”
“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“
“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”
“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”
“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”
Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“
“No.”
It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.
But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.
“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.
“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“
“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“
“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.
“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.
“You’re predictable.”
“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”
You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.
But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.
“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“
You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.
“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”
You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.
He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.
“It’s Trouble-“
“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.
And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,
If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.
You should’ve known better.
You didn’t.
So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.
You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.
He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.
But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.
And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.
You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.
So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.
The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.
You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.
You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”
“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”
You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.
“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”
“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”
The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.
“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.
“He wishes.”
No, he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.
“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.
The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.
But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.
“Okay.” You beam at him.
You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.
There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.
From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“
“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”
You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.
Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.
“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”
“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“
“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.
He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”
“We can have fun back at the room-“
“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”
And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.
“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”
The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.
“You Dean?” The man asks.
Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”
“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.
He’s pissed.
He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.
You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.
Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.
“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”
He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.
The man yanks you back, and you yelp.
“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”
Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“
“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”
Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.
“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”
Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.
And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“
“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.
If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.
Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.
“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”
He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.
He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.
You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.
Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.
Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.
The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.
And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.
The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.
“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.
“Huh?”
“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”
You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.
“He’s not even your type-“
“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.
Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”
“He wasn’t ugly-“
“Yeah, he was.”
“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.
“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”
Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.
Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“
“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.
“Shut up-“
“You’re fuckin’ crying-“
“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”
Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.
“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“
“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“
“I what? What the hell did I do-“
“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still.
“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”
You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“
“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”
You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.
You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.
Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.
“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“
“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”
“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”
You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”
“I’m trying to help-“
“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”
He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.
“Who the hell are you talking about.”
“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.
“You mean Katy?”
You grunt. “I hate her.”
“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”
You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.
“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.
“Mhm.”
“You barely even talked to her-“
“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”
“Why-“
“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.
He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.
Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.
“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”
You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.
“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“
“I don’t want you to come with me.”
Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“
“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”
“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“
“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.
Even now, Dean makes everything easier.
You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.
“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.”
Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”
“’Cause I-“
You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.
“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”
And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.
“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.
You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.
And you just told.
You ruined everything.
He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.
“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.
“Nothing-“
“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”
You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.
“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.
“Just drop it, okay?”
“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“
“Sam-“
“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“
“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet.
Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.
“Please. Drop it.”
He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.
Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.
It’s so much worse.
Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.
You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.
But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.
He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.
Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.
You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.
Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.
Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.
Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.
“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“
“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”
Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.
Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.
Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.
You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.
You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.
But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.
“I’m fine, Sam-“
“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.
You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.
“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”
You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.
“Can you look at me?”
You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”
Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.
“Go away, Dean.”
“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“
“I don’t care.”
“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“
“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.
You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.
Asshole.
“I-“
“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“
Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.
“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“
He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.
Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.
His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch.
You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.
It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.
He kissed you.
His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.
He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.
“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.
You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.
“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t-“
“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”
Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.
“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.
“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”
You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“
“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.
And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.
Longing.
“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.
“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”
His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“
“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”
Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”
“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“
“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”
You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.
“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“
“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.
“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“
He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam.
But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.
He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.
“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“
You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.
Then he almost melts.
His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.
Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.
He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.
All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.
“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.
There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.
“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”
Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.
You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.
“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”
You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”
Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.
“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”
His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.
“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”
You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.
Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.
“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”
“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.
It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.
Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.
“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”
A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.
“Dean, please-“
“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.
Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.
“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”
It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“
“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”
“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“
“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”
Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.
“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”
His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“
“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”
And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.
Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.
“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.
You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.
“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.
There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.
You’re about to be fucked into next week.
“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”
You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.
“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”
Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.
“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”
“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“
“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”
You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“
“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”
“Two. Just two-“
“They make you feel like this?”
“No- Never-“
“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”
You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.
“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.
“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“
He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.
“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“
You moan, and he chuckles.
“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.
“Open.”
You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.
“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.
You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”
Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”
“Fix what-“
“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.
You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.
“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.
But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.
You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.
Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.
“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“
He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”
You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.
“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”
“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“
“Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”
You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.
Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.
“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”
“Dean-“
“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”
You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.
“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”
“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.
He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.
Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.
“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”
You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.
“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”
You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.
“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”
“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“
“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”
He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.
“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”
He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.
“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“
“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.
“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”
“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“
“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“
“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”
He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.
You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.
“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.
“Swear on your life.”
You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.
He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.
He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”
“I- I am-“
“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”
“I don’t want to crush you-“
“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”
You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.
“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.
“Of- Of course I trust you-“
“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.
You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.
“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.
And oh.
Oh god.
You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.
Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.
Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.
“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“
He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.
You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.
“Dean- Deeaaan-“
You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.
He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.
One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.
The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.
He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.
He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.
Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.
And you can’t hold it off.
“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“
He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.
Permission.
You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.
He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.
“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”
You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.
“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”
You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.
“Already too fucked out to talk?”
You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.
“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“
You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.
Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.
“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“
“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”
“Are you-“
You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts.
“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”
Yes.
You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.
Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.
He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.
“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”
You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.
“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”
Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.
Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.
“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.
You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.
“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“
Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.
He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.
But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.
You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.
“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“
You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.
“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“
His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.
You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.
You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.
Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.
“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.
“Your girl.” You whisper.
You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.
And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.
✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Girl!!!! The tags you added on the reblog of the pervert dean post have changed me. Tentacle shaped dick sleeve incoming that is absolutely crazy work I think I love you
YESSSSSS FUCKKK YEAAAAAA
Honestly I don’t even know how I thought of that I’ve been thinking about it all day since and I’ll be thinking about it until the day I die
I genuinely might pass away if you write a fic about it and I’m serious
Though if that has to be the last thing I ever come up with, I’m happy about it LOL
I know you’ve talked about this a little with SB before but can we talk about Dean finally finding someone who can match his freak? Like he’s so used to perceiving himself as kind of a pervert that when he finds someone who doesn’t flinch at his nastiest and kinkiest ideas he’s like head over heels - he’s so utterly obsessed
I know it doesn't seem like it because you sent this in ages ago but I would love nothing more than to talk ramble about dean finally being able to let his freak flag fly. Not that there's direct correlation with being freaky and being a nerd, but dean is always quietly nerdy. He pretends he's not, but he does a shitload of research and had the time of his fucking life at a renfair, so one has to assume the same thing applies to sex. Doesn't want to scare any of his hookups away or make them uncomfortable so he tries to just give them a good time, get his rocks off, and get them out the door, but when he finally finds someone that doesn't make him feel like a dirty old pervert he's so fucking obsessed. We know dean has a batshit-crazy porn addiction and collection, and thinking about some of the things he could be watching... yeah. The anal, the toys, the squirting, the semi-public sex, the tentacles (this tentacle fic by @/slashedgutz is life changing). He knows it's not realistic, it's maybe not even feasible, but he still just wants to try. When you hook up for the first time and you put his hand around your throat he takes the inch as a mile, and suddenly he's groaning in your ear about how he wants to make you ride in the passenger seat all plugged up for him, and how whenever you hit a red light he'll touch your needy clit and feel the way you're dripping for him. When you grip his hair and the sounds of your pussy eating up his cock become noticeably louder he knows he found a keeper. He loves trying to find your limits, aching to find the point where you tell him enough, to stop, but you never do. Maybe it's because even at his worst he still works you open and cleans you up with his tongue, or maybe it's that earnest twinkle in his eye when he tells you about what he wants to put you through next; it might be sick and twisted but you think dean is at his most excited and adorable when he's going on and on about that night's plan.
Also sidenote... just the idea of dean thinking he's a pervert is actually unreal. He's watching some twisted shit, knowing that he shouldn't like it as much as he does, equally getting off on the content and his guilt. He loves to feel like trash while he watches some girls asshole get torn up by a huge tentacle dildo, or sees a girl fill herself with a fat metal plug and give her boyfriend the remote to a vibrator so he can humiliate her in public. He thinks it's kind of gross, kind of fucked up, but he thinks the same about himself. He justifies that if he's out literally saving the world it's probably okay for him to think about putting a ring gag on and spanking the waitress at his favorite diner.
This might be lame and boring but I neeeeeed to taunt Jack with nudes while he’s working
I mean he does NIGHT shift, he can’t possibly blame me for getting riled up and missing him (he totally can)
Do you think Jack would have a no masturbation rule or anything like that? How would he react if reader kept sending him nudes and spicy texts throughout his shift? Would he check to see if reader touched herself after his shifts to make sure she didn’t break any rules? IDKKKKK
- 🌌
Jack would have to stop checking his phone at work. If he sees you've sent him anything that's not an emergency or asking about breakfast he simply has to ignore it because he knows exactly what's in that message. Jack would have a no masturbation rule sometimes. He's a very generous guy so I know he loves that you love to touch yourself, but if he ever notices that you're somehow not in the mood when he comes home he is forced to take action. His general rule is that if it's sufficiently documented and it doesn't interfere with what he wants to do to you he doesn't mind, but if he ever comes home to you too fucked out to take him like you normally do he's putting a stop to that real quick. All the toys and vibrators he so generously bought you are locked up, and it's back to the stone ages. He knows that not having all your toys is a severe deterrent to touching yourself; what was before a quick ten minute relief is now a much longer session, and you'd rather just sleep it off so jack has a wet pussy waiting for him when he walks in the door. If he suspects you went through with it anyway he'll smell the sheets, needing to make sure you didn't leak all over the bed, and pull your pussy apart to see if your clit it still swollen. He'll drag you to the foot of the bed, gently pulling your folds apart with his thumbs, his eyes laving over every inch of you. His inspections are thorough, just like everything he does, and by the end he gets to comment on how wet you're getting from his eyes on you.
"She's so needy, baby. Gets all wet and drooly just from a little doctors appointment. Gonna be like a water park once I start touchin' on her."
Pairings: Alpha!Robby x Omega!Reader, Alpha!Jack x Omega!Reader
When your shitty ex alphahole boyfriend tracks you down across the country, Jack and Robby take it upon themselves to take care of you. And him.
Warnings for this series: Robby and Jack may be a little darker than you're used to, it comes with the omegaverse territory in this one. Obviously, omegaverse dynamics. Normal Pitt canon stuff. Medical inaccuracies. discussions of abuse, assault, etc. No smut. At least there's none in the outline. I lied. There's totally smut. I'm not sure it's good smut but eh. I'm sure there's more but that's most of it.
A/N: Where we try to dissect Merle's thoughts on Daryl being all soft and lovey-dovey.
============================================
Merle Dixon had a Master's Degree in two things: picking fights and sniffing out "soft spots."
From the moment the quarry camp was established, Merle had his eye on you. He didn't see a survivor; he saw a tether. He watched the way Daryl’s shoulders dropped three inches when you walked into his line of sight.
To Merle, it was nothing but a joke. A punchline waiting to happen. He figured Daryl was just "scratching an itch" until he saw the way Daryl looked at you when you weren't looking back—with a raw, anxious but honest reverence that made Merle’s skin crawl.
The heat on the Atlanta rooftop was oppressive, the metal bubbling under his boots, but the fire in Merle's chest was worse. He spat blood on the rooftop gravel, "Soft," his breath hitched, "Gonna get 'imself killed chasin' a skirt in the end of the world."
He’d spent thirty years trying to make Daryl into a mirror of himself—jagged, mean, and unattached. Seeing Daryl look at you made Merle feel like he was losing the only thing he’d ever actually owned. If Daryl had you, he didn't need Merle. And that thought terrified the man even more than his situation of being surrounded on the rooftop by walkers.
Glenn presented Daryl with a dilemma, asking him, in a voice so small it was barely audible to Merle, "What are we going to tell Y/N?" The silence that followed was deafening.
"She'll understand," Daryl mumbled. And he knew he was admitting that you were the one who could handle his broken pieces, the one who didn't need a lie to keep believing in him.
When Merle finally reunited with the group at the prison, the smirk that made its way there the first time he was locked in a cell never truly went away. He watched the way you and Daryl operated in the prison, not with words, no, but with a steady hand on each other's backs.
He ain't like me, Merle realized, sitting in the shadows with a bottle of looted hooch. I thought I was savin' 'im by keepin' 'im mean. But look at 'im.
Merle stared at Daryl, who was standing on the catwalk, you standing right by his side. Daryl looked… solid. He looked like a man who had something to protect, rather than a boy who was always waiting to be hit.
Merle’s last-second acceptance was a bitter pill, but a necessary one. He realized that he was a relic of the old, ugly world, an old dog that only knew how to bite and bark, but never learn new tricks.
He knew Daryl would mourn him, but he also knew Daryl would go back to you. He thinks this as he drives his way to the Governor's hideout.
"Go on then, baby brother," he smiles, a real one this time. "Get the girl, be the man I could never be."
And for the first time in his life, Merle Dixon was okay with being second best. Because being loved by you meant Daryl was finally, truly, safe and away from the ghost of the man who raised them.
pairing: daryl dixon x gn!reader
word count: 2.7k
summary: after slipping into daryl's bed during a horrible storm, he accidentally touches your butt in his sleep...but does wanting him to put it back make you a bad friend?
warnings: swearing, brief inappropriate touching, suggestive physical contact, daryl gets hard...twice...
a/n: this was supposed to be under 1k words but fuck me ig. inspo from this post <3
The sound of thunder booms across the prison yard, echoing off the concrete walls. Wind whips past the barred windows, infiltrating your ears with a deafening sound. Any chance to catch some sleep was long gone. The noise alone was terrifying, but then your mind was practically spinning at the mere thought of the barbed wire fences getting knocked to the ground. Fearful that walkers might infiltrate the cell block due to a reckless storm only causes your heart rate to increase.
A few minutes pass as you contemplate a plan of action. Rain splatters hard against the roof and somehow grows louder. Another violent crack in the sky makes you sit straight up. Within seconds, your chest feels tight with the type of pain that only comes from being overly panicked. Uneven breaths escape your lips as your thoughts focus on the only person who can calm you down; Daryl.
The moment your feet hit the cold floor, they’re carrying you in the direction of his cell. The door is shut for the night, but you ignore his silent warning sign that tells everyone else to fuck off. Daryl can be stubborn, abrasive even, but despite his unyielding attitude, there was an apparent soft spot for you. It was safe to say that there was some weird friendship brewing between you both. His occasional slips of empathy eventually built trust over time. Enough so that you’re positive he won’t mind this little midnight visit. Or so you tell yourself, anyway.
When Daryl stirs, your figure is hovering over him ever so innocently. Even in the dark room the man drinks in the sight of your beautiful eyes and long lashes. He almost mistakes you for an angel, under the influence he was dreaming this entire scenario. But the loudness of the storm brings him back to reality.
Then he’s wondering why the hell you’re in his cell in the first place.
“Fuck’s sake- wha’ the hell ya’ want?” Daryl mumbles angrily. The sound of his sleepy voice shoots a tingle down your spine; he sounded oddly cute despite being so pissed off.
“Can I lay with you?” you ask with a slight tremble. The shake in your tone was noticeable, making the man’s skin jump for a split second. He feared maybe you were hurt or worse, causing the protectiveness that has always settled deep within him to come alive.
“Why?” he rushes to ask, tilting his head to the side as he abruptly sits up. It seemed whatever had been bothering you captured his attention, tugging at the man like it was now his duty to come to your aid.
“I’m scared of the storm.”
Daryl rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, scoffing under his breath. He’s not even surprised you’re in his personal space for such a trivial reason. But somewhere between seeing you stand in front of him in that loose tank top and listening to those pathetic pleas, the man feels a rush of blood in between his legs. He hopes you can’t see the sudden bulge growing beneath his pajama pants.
Subconsciously, you brush loose strands of hair away from your face right as a flash of lightning clashes above the prison. He studies you for a moment, carefully considering the situation. He’s already very awake at this point, and so are you. The man knew damn well there was no way you’d fall back asleep by yourself. He exhales slowly as the thunder continues to reverberate forcefully outside.
Daryl caves in much sooner than he likes to admit. Maybe, deep down, he figures life is too short to push away this offer. To share the same bed with the only survivor at this camp who makes him double-take each time they cross paths…well, it was too good to be true.
He mumbles incoherent words under his breath and pushes himself to the side, pulling back just enough of the sheets to expose the now empty side of his mattress. He had never done this with you before, so he pretends that trying to find a comfortable position is of more importance than watching you crawl into his bed.
Daryl shifts restlessly before leaning back, slipping his hand behind his head as the pillow dips beneath him. Meanwhile, you try your best to ignore the flush on your face as you tuck your legs underneath the warm blanket and roll onto your stomach; your preferred sleeping position. You’re lucky the man happened to have another pillow with him. He shoves it in your direction half-assed. You murmur a small, “Thank you.”
Staying true to his typical, quiet behavior, Daryl only grunts in response.
A streak of lightning illuminates the room, then another shortly after. Daryl turns his head in the opposite direction of your own. Left to put your focus on something else, you decide to stare absentmindedly at the cell door instead. Watching and listening to the storm seemed to be an easier feat when there was a warm, sturdy body near you. Not just anyone, but Dixon himself.
Somehow, even in the midst of the chaos outside, you could just barely hear the way his breathing eventually steadied and softened into a rhythm that left you feeling…safe, protected. The atmosphere in the room isn’t quite comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either. You’re hyperaware of every little detail. Daryl’s scent is the most notable; it's intoxicating, deep in the woven threads of his blanket that it seems to completely surround you. The warmth of his body feels so natural despite neither of you ever being in this position before. Yet, you wouldn’t have asked for a better person to be with during such a scary night.
Time seems to move in slow motion for the next couple hours. Eventually, the torrential downpour let up only a bit. Thunder was rolling further in the distance, but remained loud and obnoxious. You hadn’t moved more than an inch at most from your spot on the shared bed. All that had changed was the way you eventually pushed the blanket down your legs due to the suddenly hot space. You blame Daryl for the way his body acts like a damn heater.
Still on your stomach, your eyes flutter shut. Flickers of day dreams cross your mind; images that weren’t quite real but didn’t feel like they were part of a made-up world either. However, even exhaustion couldn’t get you to ignore what comes next.
In the dark, something brushes against your bottom. A moment later, it rests there.
Whatever made contact with your body was warm, large, and has five digits that dig into the exposed skin under your shorts.
It only takes a few seconds to realize it’s Daryl’s hand.
Heat blooms up your neck. The rest of his body is completely still, resembling your own current physical state. Daryl inhales gently and lightly smacks his lips, mumbling a vague word in his deep sleep. The touch must be accidental, considering his breathing remains slow and steady, but your stomach pools with warmth at the touch. Whatever oxygen had been previously left in your lungs was stolen from you.
You can’t help but wonder…is this intentional? Did he know what he was doing in the first place? As you ask yourself these questions in your head, Daryl’s fingers settle further down the curve of your backside, practically slipping into the little crease of fat that comes between your bottom and the backs of your thighs.
A strangled gasp emits from your lips at the touch. Without much of a second thought, you ask aloud, “Daryl?”
The man next to you doesn’t seem to hear the call of his own name. All you get is silence in return. You repeat yourself as a rather feeble attempt to see if he’s truly asleep. “Uh, Daryl? You awake?”
Your eyes widen at the feeling of Daryl finally shifting in his sleep. His fingers squeeze you briefly before releasing again. The sheets rustle as the man stretches his legs, letting out a rather long, loud exhale. He whispers back, “Wha’?”
Your heart falls into your stomach. Shit, so he’s awake, now what do you say?
The question comes out before you have time to process it.
“Are you…touching my butt on purpose?”
You’re not sure you’ve ever seen the skilled hunter react so quickly before. Daryl immediately pulls his hand back as though he had been setting it on a hot frying pan this whole time instead. You can practically feel the embarrassment radiate off him. He sucks in a sharp breath and coughs afterwards. Out of shame, the man abruptly turns onto his side. The way he reacts makes you flinch. Briefly, you regret bringing it up in the first place…mostly because you actually miss the feeling, which comes as a shock more than anything else.
“Fuck, shit, ‘m sorry.” he mumbles, shoving his face into his own pillow hastily.
You take this chance to lift your upper half, resting your weight on your elbows to get a better look at him. The dark room doesn’t help the situation at all. You can barely see him, and it appears he’d rather keep it that way. His broad shoulders are all you can make out as he softly groans to himself.
Not that you can see, but Daryl’s freaking out. So much so, that he can't stop clenching his jaw. There’s nothing else he can do now but dig his own damn grave. The man fears he may have stopped breathing for a couple seconds at one point. God, now he feels like a piece of shit. He wonders, why are you still here? Why haven’t you left already?
Daryl Dixon can handle the end of the world like it's nothing. But this right here? God, he thinks he might actually have to run away from the prison tomorrow morning. Just up and leave so he doesn’t have to catch sight of your pretty face staring at him like he’s a freak from this moment forward. He’s already cataloging everything he needs to pack on his bike. The supplies, what necessary clothes he might need, where he’s hidden his extra knives.
Goddamnit, his stomach churns at the thought of leaving you behind. But he feels like he genuinely has to now.
Because, he wonders to himself, how do you fuck up that badly the first time you share the bed with someone? Not just someone, but you of all people.
Daryl’s complete stillness is torture. There’s still a heavy patter of rain outside, but no big storm could mask the awkwardness between you and your friend in this tight cell. You lick your bottom lip, pulling it in between your teeth. Heavy silence fills the void for many long, agonizing seconds. The tension is so thick, someone could cut it with a knife. The way Daryl shields himself…you hate it. Not once has he ever displayed this type of behavior specifically towards you before. And you’ll be damned if you let it continue.
“Daryl, it’s not that big of a deal.” you tell him, trying to keep your voice steady. The reassurance falls short, however.
“Fuck off.” he spits back. The venom in his words stings like a burn, but you choose to ignore it. You understand why he’s so upset. Had you been in his position, maybe you would have done the same.
Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “Daryl, I didn’t…I-I didn’t mind you doing that. Really.”
He stops breathing.
Anticipation builds in Daryl’s chest. It coils so tight, he swears he might snap in two. The possibility of touching you in that way again, it feels wrong…yet so right. His fingers clutch the bundle of sheets that rested in front of his chest.
Daryl finally turns onto his back once more, head lulling to the side of his pillow to get a better view of your beauty. Some of his loose hair falls forward and shadows his dark eyes.
“Fuck you just say to me?” he snaps, but there’s less agitation in his voice now. If you didn’t know any better, he sounds genuinely curious.
It’s not the exhaustion talking when you go to respond to Daryl. “I said I don’t mind. It wasn’t weird to me.”
“Then why did you-”
“Oh my gosh, Daryl just fucking put it back already.”
Both you and Daryl stare at one another, your pulses throbbing loudly. Your request hangs heavy in the air, so long that you’re scared that maybe you just made a fool of yourself in the end.
In reality, Daryl is speechless because he hasn’t heard anyone talk to him so directly about such an intimate topic. He doesn’t face trials such as this one very often, if at all. In a world as broken as this one, he’s meant to hunt, protect, and survive. His mind is constantly in fight mode. So when the voices in his head whisper to pull you in, to hold your body close to his own and never let go, his breath hitches slightly.
Daryl didn’t think he was deserving of this sort of treatment. He was as shattered as the rest of earth currently was. He wondered, what did he do to deserve you?
You sigh and tear your line of sight away from the man and turn towards the door instead, plopping back down on your stomach. It’s a poor attempt to hide your red face. You couldn’t stand the idea of letting him stare at you any longer, especially considering how vulnerable you felt.
You shut your eyes to try and escape the situation you put yourself in. Regret courses through your veins. Had you just stayed in your own cell, this would have never happened in the first place. After what feels like ages pass, you hear the body next to you stir slightly. All that you can hear at first is the creak of springs in the mattress under his weight. Then, his body slowly gravitates closer to your own. Your temporary heater was up against you once more, making it hard not to smile at the proximity.
Something restless disturbs the man all the way down to his core. Something so strong that he can’t believe what he does next.
Daryl’s hand comes back to your bottom. The contact causes an explosion of butterflies to erupt in your stomach. He doesn’t squeeze your delicate flesh, nor does he travel further down the seam of your shorts, but he keeps it held in one spot like he didn’t plan on letting go. A slow smirk curves your mouth, and you realize it’s difficult to hold back any sort of reaction. You feel your lips part in a near quiet, involuntary exhale.
He could tell you were content now, and for that he’s not quite sure what the hell this means between the two of you down the line. All because of his hand, there’s an obvious shift in the atmosphere now. Something neither of you can ignore.
“Fuckin’ weirdo.” he murmurs under his breath, pleased at the sound you had released a few moments ago. Daryl can’t help but tease you. It’s his form of retribution. You're the reason why his pants are constricting right now. While holding one of the most intimate parts of your body, Daryl can’t help but let his mind wander a bit, and it’s entirely your fault, of course.
“Shut up.” you hiss back at him, but Daryl can hear the smile in your voice. Before closing his eyes for the rest of the night, his gaze travels down once more. He takes a glance at your frame under the palm of his hand and gulps.
“Whatever.” he says flatly.
You try to contain the faint giggle that hiccups from the back of your throat, but you fail miserably. It makes Daryl’s heart skip a beat at the sound.
Somehow, later that night, the two of you slip into an unexpected position. Still asleep, Daryl had turned onto his side again, this time his other arm coming to wrap itself around your waist. Knocked out cold from the eventual exhaustion, you mirrored the man's position and pulled yourself up to your side, falling flush against his warm chest.
Both of you slept heavier than you had in months. Only when the sun finally rose and the rainclouds dispersed did the two of you finally awake and quietly acknowledge the change in your relationship. It didn’t require a label, but both of you realize that this isn’t something close friends do.
But you’d rather die to a walker bite than have to go another night without Daryl Dixon’s warm hands.
My uncle was one of the top surgeons in the country. He was upper middle class definitely. When he got cancer, his insurance didn’t cover all the treatments he would need and after 5 years he drained his savings on cancer treatments (while still working most of that time) and eventually died because he couldn’t afford the expensive treatments that might have saved him.
If you are upper middle class and you get sick, it will likely bankrupt your family. It’s fucked.
Honest to god - even if you make 6 figures a year? you're closer to poverty than true wealth. Check your shit and remember who your real allies and enemies are guys.
A 6 figure income is a lot right?
That’s say: 223,000 dollars a year
Which is 112 dollars an hour.
Most people would consider that upper middle class. That’s enough money to have a nice house, go on fun vacations. That’s slight more than the average doctor makes.
223,000 dollars is what Jeff Bezo makes in a minute
There was a wonderful study done about 15 years ago I think, that shows that people cannot accurately identify their income bracket. Most people who own a home think they are upper middle class when in fact they are closer to the poverty line. Even people living well below poverty often identify as middle class. The wealth gap is even worse now. I wonder if anyone actually knows their financial standing.
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